


Thirteen Reasons Why- Johnlock Highschool AU

by Mistatim



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Thirteen Reasons Why - Jay Asher
Genre: Angst, Gen, Highschool/Boarding school AU, Major character death - Freeform, Moriarty - Freeform, Reichenbach, Sad!John, Sherlock AU, Thirteen Reasons Why/Sherlock crossover, sherlock bbc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-19
Updated: 2013-10-19
Packaged: 2017-12-29 21:00:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1010052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mistatim/pseuds/Mistatim





	Thirteen Reasons Why- Johnlock Highschool AU

John buried his face in his hands. A package had arrived for him today. He never got mail. His parents had sent him to the boarding school, and now they were busy pretending he didn’t exist. Not even his sister Harry wrote. His numb fingers worked the tape off the box. He should get scissors. But that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. Not anymore.  


The box had no return address, the way HE would always send them. And John always knew they were for him. The messy, but beautiful, writing, the words that danced along the page, the way HE would smile whenever he knew John had got the note, or text, or whatever suited his fancy at that time. When they had first met, HE told John things about him that John hadn’t even known, but that had made incredible sense. John had fallen in love.

And now the package. Some kind of cruel joke perhaps? Someone who had know what HE meant to John, someone who was jealous, or mad, or just hated him for loving his young Detective, who could solve anything you gave him. 

But no, none had known how his Sherlock had sent the letters, or the packages, or the short notes that read like a text, but only those had been signed with his initials, a -SH after every note. Some telling him to come to his dorm, “Baker room, come at once if convenient” was his most popular method of calling him. If he didn’t come, or respond right away, the messages got more insistent. “If inconvenient, come anyway” was next. John would usually drop everything and run to him, no matter when he wanted him. He often woke at midnight, only to stay up the rest of the night helping him with something related to a case. It was usually a new piece of dirt, or animal matter, and he would write it down in a notebook. Occasionally, he would be called to pick something up that Sherlock dropped, like a book, or his pen. Or to send a text to the kid who had killed Henry’s dog, or the person who stole the little girl in pink’s phone.

They always confessed when Sherlock faced them with all the evidence.

When Sherlock called for John to come do a little thing, John knew he really just wanted to see him. To check that he wasn’t being teased too badly, to see that his limp wasn’t hurting him again, to make sure all was right. To run his long, nimble fingers over John’s rugby wound in his shoulder. But John never let on that he knew. Sherlock thought that he was oh-so-clever, but when it came to John, he acted like a fool in love. 

Maybe he was.

And John thought of this, as he stared at the little unmarked box that had come in the mail without a return label, he cried. He picked up the box and threw it across the room. WHY!? He screamed in his head. Why? Why had this happened? Why had he jumped? He could have told John anything. If he was depressed, he could have said something! I would have helped him! I loved him! 

John broke down crying for the third time that day.

Eventually, he got up. Crossed the room, and opened the drawer where he kept the scissors. Kneeling down to the box, he sliced off the tape and opened the package.  
Inside, he found thirteen rolls of tape, and a handwritten note.

The letter read:

To: All who have caused me pain  
From: The one you always teased

If you are reading this, it means you are part of the reason I killed myself. You all have made me suffer in some way or another, and now you will see what the fruit of your labors has become.

I am a genius. I am brilliant. And you stupid people with your stupid little minds couldn’t see that. You called me “Freak”. You called me a “Liar”. You called me horrible things that I tried to ignore. You were weak, and you were mean. I’m standing on the roof now, thinking of all of you. There is no hesitation, because there is no point. No one will care. You would all forget this as soon as it is done, if it were not for this. Because now, I’m putting the blame back on you, where it belongs. One of you will get this twice, and the last person can take these to the grave.

Some of you may follow me after this, and I will not care. Not because I am dead, and therefore incapable of caring, but because I could not care less for your pathetic, inconsequential, lives.

When you have listened to all of them, send them along to the next person on the list. If you do not, I have a spare copy that will be sent out publicly.

I’ve thought of everything  
You cannot stop me

-Sherlock Holmes

  

John looked up from the letter. Did Sherlock mean that? Did he not actually care about John? John looked at the pills on his counter. ‘For your depression’ His therapist had said. Yes, they might end his depression, if he took them all at once. But no, that’s what Sherlock wanted. He would not give him the satisfaction.  
So, instead, he pulled the tape marked #1 out of the box, and popped it into his cassette player. Sherlock’s voice, a deep, smooth, sweet voice, almost like melted chocolate, a voice he thought he would never hear again, came out of the speakers. John put his face in his hands as his listened to it speak words he did not catch. He sat there for an hour, maybe more, and only when the click-click-click-click-click of the end of the tape reached his ears did he realize that he hadn’t truly heard a single word that was spoken. He hit rewind and started over.

“I bet you thought this wouldn’t happen.” Sherlock’s voice rang out clear and cold, none of that warmth John was used to whenever Sherlock spoke to him.  
“I bet you thought you got away with it. Away with it all. Well you didn’t. And this first tape, is for you, Moriarty.” The way Sherlock said ‘Moriarty’ sent shivers down John’s spine. It was cold, and full of malice, full of hateful spite. “You were brilliant, almost as smart as me. Straight ‘A’s, the teachers loved you, So. Much. Promise. As you were constantly reminded. And of course, none of them ever thought that you could be a bully. Not a person, not ever, thought that you did anything mean or nasty. But you did. Oh, no. Not directly. Your followers however, did. YOU killed Henry’s dog. YOU stole the girl in pink’s phone. But OH, you did so much more. your influence spread far and wide, to the point where you kidnapped neighbourhood children, all for fun, and to ruin me. Ruin me, because you made them think I was the one who captured them. So when I found them, they screamed. That took a long time to explain, and people never truly trusted me again.” 

John looked sadly at the tape. He was there when that happened, and he could see how much it had hurt Sherlock. If only he had talked to him about it.  
He hit resume.

“So then, that brings us to Anderson. He is the second person on this list that you, Moriarty, will send them to. Flip over the tape now, and listen.”

John did as he was told.

“You, Anderson, were a bully. You were a dumb bully, but you were a bully. You treated everyone around you like dirt, because you were the principal’s assistant.” Sherlock started. “You called me freak, because I didn’t act like ‘normal’ people do. You thought I shouldn’t be allowed into the Principal’s room, even though he clearly needed my assistance. You were rich, and so you thought anyone who wasn’t was below you. Well, I made my own way. And I believed that no matter how dumb you were, you were still a person. So I am, and always was, the better man. You, on the other hand, had no morals. You cheat on tests, and on your girlfriend.” He paused for a moment.  
“Which, I believe, brings us to Donovan. She is the third person on this list that you, Anderson, will send them to. Put in the next tape now, and listen.”

John reached into the box, and pulled out the next tape. He switched them off, carefully placing tape numbers 1 and 2 back into the box, and pressed play. 

“Ah, Donovan. You were not very smart, and I believe you may have had a list of insults for me.” John could hear the smirk in Sherlock’s voice. “None of which were any good, of course. ‘Freak’, I believe was your favorite. But that isn’t even why you’re on this list. If I had to put everyone who insulted me on here, this list could span the River Thames. No, you are on this list, quite simply, because you are uncaring. I bet you haven’t batted an eye over my death, you inhumane creature.” This was the angriest John had ever heard Sherlock being. He was startled.

Sherlock continued. “You were called to Lestrade’s office, and you rallied up Anderson, and you told him that I wasn’t smart, that I was ordinary, that there was nothing special about me other than a cleverly hidden cheat sheet, and that I organised every crime I ever solved.” The venom in his voice was thick with malice. “So, Lestrade, you are next on my list. He is the fourth person on this list that you, Donovan, will send them to. Flip over the tape now, and listen.”

John did.

“And you, Lestrade, you gullible idiot, you needed me to solve everything for you. And I do. I solve anything you can’t, I am at your beck and call, and you threw me over.” Sherlock sounded sad, and John was surprised.

“All it took to throw me over, was two people, two people who hate me, I might add, to make you change your mind. The whole school was against me after that, and it’s your fault. So, I don’t have much to say to you, as I am not mad, just… disappointed that you would do that. Now, pass the tapes to Molly. She is the fifth person on my list so you, Lestrade, will send these tapes to her. But first, put in the next one, and listen.”

John exchanged tapes, but he didn’t press play. He didn’t want to hear Sherlock telling Molly why she caused him pain. John liked Molly, she was a mutual friend, and it felt private. But, he figured, she had the tapes before him, and she probably listened to what Sherlock had to say about him. But he needed a minute. Getting up, he quickly fixed himself a cup of coffee. He took his black, no sugar. A fact that Sherlock had remembered for him, even though he deleted everything that was not important to him. But John was important to him, or so he once thought.

Stirring his coffee, he sat down on the floor once again and pressed ‘Play’. Sherlock voice rang out over the speakers loud and clear.

“This is an apology. Molly, you didn’t deserve the way I treated you. You loved me, and chose to ignore that, because it was inconvenient for me at that time. You have to understand, though. It was not because I didn’t care about your feelings, it was because I was with John. And while I could take whatever mean things they threw at me, I was trying to protect John. He did not deserve to be brought down because of me, at I would never have let myself live it down if I was the cause of his suffering.” Sherlock drew in an audible breath. “And so to save someone else from harm, I have hurt you. And… I’m sorry Molly. You didn’t deserve that. You matter to me, you’ve always mattered, and you once said that I look sad when I think John can’t see me. You thought it was because you didn’t count. As a person. As someone I loved. But you do. You’ve always counted to me.” Sherlock sighed. “I’m sorry. Now Molly, please, pass the tapes on to the next person, you don’t even have to listen to the rest. After what I’ve already out you through, it seems only fair. So go on, pass these to Irene, the sixth person on my list.”

John stiffened at the name. Irene. The only woman Sherlock had ever loved, and also the one who pushed John into asking Sherlock out. 

He was almost halfway done, and still his name hadn’t come up. He wondered when it would. He wondered if it was an apology, like Molly’s. He wondered if it was a damnation, like Moriarty’s. He looked down at his full coffee cup, and sighed. He wouldn’t drink it. It just reminded him of all the times Sherlock would show up at his locker with two cups of coffee, one for himself, and one for John. They would drink it together and talk about his latest case, or a breakthrough in science that Sherlock would have made a long time ago, if he had the proper equipment.

John missed him, John missed him so much it hurt. It had been two weeks, and he hadn’t gotten out of bed. Or gotten dressed. Or really eaten at all.

He flipped the tape over and pressed play.

“You, Irene, when I first met you, I had taken a case in which you were in possession of a snapped photograph of a popular student, in a compromising position. I came to your dorm, and your girlfriend opened the door. She said you would be right with me. And you were. Completely naked, you smiled at me and proceeded to sit down. I have to admit, I was taken. I could read nothing on you, which was probably your goal. You told me that John loved me, which, of course, I already knew.” He sounded smug, and slightly happy.  
“And I fell for you. You texted me, and left notes. I was happy, though I’d never let on. And then you ran. You got into trouble, and you packed up and left.” He sounded hurt now. “And you never looked back. And you, gone away, to America, living the life, you probably haven’t even heard I’m dead. And you won’t care. So go on, now. Send these to John. I love him, and I don’t need you anymore. He is the seventh person on my list, and the only one who shouldn’t be.”

John’s heart skipped a beat. He was next. His shaking hands picked up tape number three, and put in tape number four.

Sherlock’s voice sang out of the speakers, a soft, sweet sound, that John only ever heard when they were alone. “John, sweetie, you are not on this list. This is not for you, this is for everyone else to hear. I loved you, John. And I never said it. I should have. Maybe things would have been different then.” A tear came to John’s eye. He wiped it away hurriedly. Sherlock loved him? No, he couldn’t. He had once said that sentiment was a chemical defect found on the losing side. Perhaps this is what he meant, though. He was losing his battle to stay alive, losing himself. So, he let sentiment overcome him, and flew down.

“John was the only one I have ever truly loved. I would protect him at any cost, and he, me. I do not think you all could understand, with your casual flings, and breakups and get-togethers, and all those things dumb highschoolers do. No, John and I, we loved each other. I would have married him. I wish I did. So I’m sorry, John, I’m sorry for the pain I’ve caused you, I’m sorry for leaving you alone, I’m sorry.”

John was crying by the end. Sherlock meant so much to him. And he was glad to hear that Sherlock had felt the same way.

“So please,” And oh my god was Sherlock crying? “Please, John. Don’t hate me.” Sherlock was! He was crying! Over John! I could never hate you, Sherlock. John thought. Never.

“Flip this tape over, John, and send the box to Moriarty again when you are done. He has done more wrong than you know.”

John obeyed. He flipped the tape over, and pressed the ‘play’ button.

“Moriarty,” Sherlock began “You told me that I knew what to do. You told me that you owed me a fall, and you made good on your word. So here I am, on the rooftop, doing exactly what you told me to. And you will follow me, Moriarty. You don’t care for staying alive, not when your favorite toy is gone. You drove me to this. You caused this. You will pay.” Sherlock’s voice cut off suddenly, as if the tape had been edited. It resumed thirty seconds later. “Too emotional for my liking, that last bit. Now, Moriarty, send these off to Mrs. Hudson, dear old lady. You know the drill.”

John did know the drill. He did everything quick, and without hesitation.

The new tape started. “Mrs. Hudson, our lovely landlady. I didn’t die because of something you did, but because of something that was done to you. I will hazard a guess that not everybody knows what happened that night, so forgive me for telling the story.” Sherlock took a deep breath, and continued. “One night, John and I were out. Apparently, the campus police had received an anonymous tip-off that I had hidden drugs in my dorm.” He voice was laughing, while still managing to be humorless. “Mrs. Hudson saw my door open, and she entered, fearing that I was in trouble. They rounded on her, and she asked them why they were here. They told her to leave. She asked if they had a warrant. They took this as an opportunity to accuse her of ‘Getting in the way of the police’ and they beat her. When John and I arrived at my dorm, we found her lying on the floor. Thankfully, she has made a full recovery.” Sherlock smiled, and you could hear it in his voice.  
“Now, please, send these to Mycroft. He is the tenth on my list.”

“I need air.” John muttered to no one in particular, as he stood up and headed to the door. He pulled a coat over his sweater and turned the knob. Stepping out into the cold Winter air, he took a deep breath. People were still going by, living their lives, as if nothing had changed. But everything had. Life wasn’t the same. Sherlock was gone, and the world had no point anymore.

He took a walk past the Reichenbach building, the one Sherlock had jumped off of not three weeks ago. He remembered Sherlock walking with him, and then asking him to run back to his dorm and get his phone. He couldn’t find it, so he went back to tell Sherlock that. As he was passing the building, his phone rang. It came up ‘Sherlock’. John laughed, thinking that Sherlock had called to tell him that he had found his phone, it was in his pocket the whole time, and that John really should have asked him to check there first.  
John had answered it with a laugh, asking Sherlock if he forgot it was in his pocket.  
Sherlock told him to look up.  
John did.  
There was Sherlock, on the rooftop, holding his phone. Standing way too close to the edge for John’s liking.  
“Sherlock, get back from there!” John told him. “You might fall.”  
“Isn’t that the point?” Sherlock answered, sadly.  
“Sherlock, what are you doing.” It wasn’t a question. John had known. Perhaps from the time he left him that morning, maybe even before that. “I’m coming up.” He decided.  
“Stay right there, John.”  
“No, Sherlock, please. Please. Don’t jump. Anything I could possibly do, I will. We can talk, you can see a therapist, I have a particularly good one, just,... Anything! Please Sherlock!”  
“STAY RIGHT THERE John, do you understand? Don’t hang up. This is my note. Isn’t that what people do? Leave a note?”  
He hung up his phone, and stepped forward slightly.  
“SHERLOCK!” John shouted, but it wouldn’t have stopped what was about to happen, even if Sherlock had heard him.  
Sherlock leaned forward, and began to fall. His black coat billowing behind him like great wings of an impressive black bird, or an Angel. John’s angel fell, and John wished he would spread his wings and fly, but all too soon, and yet an eternity later, he hit the ground. John’s hand dropped to his side, still holding the phone. The display on the screen read 00.5.26. Five minutes that phone had been on, five minutes since he knew Sherlock would jump, five minutes that made his life crash to the pavement as Sherlock did, dying, bleeding his life out on the ground. John ran, blindly, towards Sherlock. Thinking that maybe, maybe, there would be time enough to catch him, even though John knew it was too late already. As he ran, he slipped on a patch of ice and hit his head hard on the ground. He knew that he was concussed, but he spared no more thought for himself, as he got up again and ran. Reaching Sherlock, he felt for a pulse that was not there, he looked for breath that did not come, and he broke down sobbing, and placed his head on Sherlock’s chest. No heartbeat. No life. Not for himself or Sherlock.

 

John shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. All the newspapers had told of Sherlock’s death, but none had told of the ones he left behind.  
So he turned, and headed for his dorm. He could do Sherlock the justice of listening to the rest, but they didn’t really matter. Not to John. He just wanted to hear Sherlock’s voice again.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock began, over the tape player. “You were always the golden child, were you not? But I don’t blame you for that, after all, I made no effort to take your place. No, what I blame you for is simple. You held me down. You were the genius, and you wanted to stay that way. But, you were to lazy to do your own dirty work. So who did that fall to? Me. Always me. And I never got any credit. Oh, no. It was always ‘Oh, look at what brilliant Mycroft has done!’ and you bathed in the praise, and you never gave credit to the little teased boy who could really have used some. So this is why you are on my list. Now, send these to Sebastian, but play the rest first.”

“Sebastian, how wonderful to see you. My oldest friend. And you’ve hired me for a case, yes? And I thought that was all you. That you needed my help, and maybe wanted to see me again. Not that I like you, at all. You were alway irritating, and you said I ‘annoyed the piss out of everyone’ to quote you. You put me in a dangerous situation, and more than that, you put John in a dangerous situation. You scoffed at me when I found the solution, and you insulted me the whole time. If I did not find your case interesting, I would have left. Now, pass this to the school’s Headmaster. Yes, he is on this list too.”

John was startled. The school’s Headmaster? What did he do to Sherlock?  
John flipped the tape and hit play.

“Lestrade came to your office with two of my classmates, Anderson and Donovan, a little under a week before I died. They told you everything that they suspected I had done, and you got angry with me. Not even listening to my side, you threatened expulsion. The only words you needed to hear was Anderson saying that I had worked some cases involving personal student files. So, you came to my dorm, and that was it. You expelled me. No debate, no chance for me. You said you would explain in my official expulsion letter. You never did, did you? Now, send these to Kitty, but play the rest first.”

John’s breath caught in his throat whenever Kitty was mentioned. She had flirted with Sherlock, and told him that if people thought he and John were a couple, she would set them straight, but only if Sherlock did what she wanted. He changed the tapes, and clicked resume.

“Ah, Kitty. Now, I never liked reporters, but you were, perhaps, my least favorite. You pretended to have a crush on me, just to get the story of me for the school’s newspaper. I could see through you right away, of course. And you repelled me. You were a liar. A dirty, rotten, liar. And then you threw me under the bus. Not, of course, that I expected any more from you, but you talked to Jim Moriarty, and fabricated a story where I was the bad guy, the Consulting Criminal-in-the-making, where all of my successes were forged. And slowly, everyone believed you. So you, Kitty, may have the most blame out of everyone. So you, my dear, can take these tapes and ROT IN HELL with them, knowing that ultimately, you had one of the biggest hands in my suicide, and it’s your fault.”

John pulled the last tape out. Sherlock didn’t talk much, but John wished that he had. Maybe then, John could have stopped this, but he still doubted it.  
He packed up the box, grabbed his long-cold coffee, and walked to the postal station.  
“I need to mail this.” He said numbly.  
The man at the counter looked at him closely.  
“Hey man, you alright?”  
John shook his head.  
“I just need to mail this, alright?”  
“Yeah, man. Whatever.”  
John paid the fee and left the store. Walking down main street, passing all the shops they would go to, grab a bite, some coffee, he felt worse than he had in a long time. But Sherlock and John had a secret code, that no one else knew. The clicking in the background of the tape for John had been Morse code. It had simply said “Go to the restaurant where we had our first date. Look under the table we sat at.” So he did that.

Under the table had been a small package, just big enough for a cassette tape. And that’s what it was. With “for John” in his scribbly handwriting.

He brought it home, played it, and for the first time in two weeks, he smiled.


End file.
